


Here There Be Monsters

by PhoenixDragon



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dark, Gen, Horror, Introspection, Minor Character Death, Spoilers up to the Time War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He walked carefully through the debris of the ancient house, blast marks scorched along the walls, the screams of the residents echoing in his ears. It was once a proud house – home to the greatest (and worst) of the Time Lord race. He should know. He was counted in both categories once, before he wasn’t counted at all.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here There Be Monsters

He walked carefully through the debris of the ancient house, blast marks scorched along the walls, the screams of the residents echoing in his ears. It was once a proud house – home to the greatest (and worst) of the Time Lord race. He should know. He was counted in both categories once, before he wasn’t counted at all. Spurned, rejected by those who were once known as family. 

Until they had need of him.

But such bitter thoughts were not beneficial. And this incarnation of himself found such things foreign within his mind. Yet they occurred more and more frequently as the War progressed – whole worlds and civilizations rising and falling as the centuries stretched ever on – neither side gaining ground. But they weren’t losing any either. He could feel dread (such a friend now) settle in his gut – drastic action may have to be taken to win (or lose). But then…he knew that the moment he had been recalled.

The Time Lords knew nothing of war anymore – and their enemies were born of that ideal. Metallic monsters with a ruthlessness he had allowed to run unchecked. There was a time when he could have stopped them permanently, but he was not the kind of man to pour such cold horror upon a whole race. He wondered (often) if he was that kind of man now. The thought thrilled and depressed him - and only one of those feelings was familiar, even as the context of it was frightening.

He paused outside the nursery, memories almost overwhelming the stench of burnt masonry and mildewed walls. The innocence of his own childhood, his papa teaching him simple quadric equations with the rare soft smile for every delighted right answer he crowed out. The sweet laughter and happy tussling of his own children, grandchildren and great grandchildren – the structure itself seeming to glow with the vitality and freshness of each generation. Content within itself as it nurtured an ever growing line of one of the proudest and most ancient lineages to exist upon Gallifrey.

But those days had long passed. The manor seemed more a twisted, ghoulish reflection of what it had once been and he could feel something beneath his hearts wrench with an odd species of regret. All that he had lost (and had still to lose), yet he paused to feel sorry for a home that had long rejected him, for memories that were just as false as the security these walls once represented. This wasn’t his home. It hadn’t been for a long, long time. And the memories were just that – memories. Most of them best forgotten.

He kept walking, trying to block out the melancholy that gripped his bones. There had been too much loss – with too much still at stake to waste on such frivolous feeling. It was misplaced at best, energy-wasting at worst. There was much yet to do and little time to do it in. An irony he chose not to reflect on, even when things were at their bleakest.

He was not the man he once was.

On days like today, he wondered if maybe that was for the best.

His home was a prison now. It had not started out as such, though he smiled bitterly at the happy memories that deluged him with every step. This place had not always been warm and open to him. Once he was shunned (quietly, coldly – never outright – that is not the Time Lord way), the walls were like prison bars to him. They kept him locked away, within himself, within tradition and responsibility – but he had been lucky enough to escape. The prison the house had become to him was all within his mind, a flickering thought behind the chilly, indifferent faces he was forced to interact with day to day. Now the manor had come full circle; it truly was a prison: one that housed the worst of the enemy they were duty-bound to fight.

Circles upon circles. Irony within ironies. He tried to not think about how it finally seemed like home now – how the walls bled the truth in their ruined state. That would only lead to bitterness, which in itself would lead to apathy.

His people couldn’t afford his apathy.

He made his way down the servant stairs (another favorite place to play when he was small and unaware of the whispers already circulating within and without his home), coming to a halt when he encountered a fresh-faced young man guarding the door, the fear and eagerness on his face reflecting his age. He had not even yet regenerated. He certainly hadn’t been recruited for very long. Theta almost wondered how he had managed to pull guard duty over one of the worst beings spawned in all of creation. Then he remembered where he was standing –

The fallen House of Lungbarrow.

He could feel the bitterness rise within his heart, but swallowed it back as he nodded a curt greeting to the youthful Time Lord. He looked barely out of Academy, certainly not trained for guard duty, much less any combat it might result in. He tried to not despair of this, even as everything he was (or had been once), protested the very idea of this man being here. The man he had been protested the whole War, but had been given little choice when he was shown the odds. He loved his people, even as they despised him. He could not leave them struggling with ideals they had not had to confront in thousands upon thousands of years – they would have lost before it had gotten started. Even if he had been given a choice, he would still be here. A thought that made him proud, even as it drained him.

“General,” the young man rapped out, straightening even further (enough to make Theta’s spine ache in sympathy), firing off a salute that he was forced to answer, even if it was just to get the over-eager soldier to relax a fraction and spare him the phantom twinge in his own shoulders.

“Has he made any requests?” Theta asked blandly, dispensing of even the slightest of formalities. He was known for that, so the youngster didn’t even crack an eyebrow, giving his report in that overly excited, slightly smug way that only the very young and inexperienced can manage. He would (unfortunately) learn soon enough, his bright determination shadowed with horror and pain. Theta just hoped it wouldn’t be any time soon.

He nodded at the information given, gleaning what was important out of the barrage of words, forcing himself to pay attention. The report was detailed, showing a thoroughness he had not expected and he had to restrain a proud smile for this young Time Lord, this fresh youth that would likely be here today and dead on the battlefield tomorrow. Forming attachments was a mistake. He learned that lesson faster and harder than any other lesson in his life – and that was saying much, with all that he had seen and experienced.

He shook off the next wave of melancholy and gestured to the door, nodding his comprehension even as his gaze drifted from the guard, already seeing beyond him into the room he was about to enter. The other man took no offense, though he frowned when Theta waved him to one side, one hand outstretched for the key. The door was subsequently unlocked and he told him how long he would be and what he would do when he wanted out of the room.

“I will only be five minutes at the most,” Theta informed him. “I will rap sharply four times when I need to exit – do not open the door for any other reason – do you understand?”

“Yes, General,” was the subdued answer – though there was steel in the youngster’s voice.

“Good man,” Theta replied quietly, though he was hardly paying attention to his own words, the flutter in his gut making him feel queasy and more than a little faint. It was funny in reflection, because he had seen some of the worst already. The being beyond this door could not hurt him any more than he had already been hurt – but that didn’t deter the fear that curled around his hearts – or the pain that rose thick and coppery at the back of his throat.

“Don’t move from this spot. And be ready for my signal.”

“Yes, General,” was the response (mildly offended now) and Theta’s lips quirked slightly of their own accord as he stepped over the threshold, the lock clicking into place with a hollow snick of sound.

He barely got a breath in before the prisoner spoke up, his voice a malicious croak – the casual viciousness of his race reflected in the vibration of his vocal chords. A deranged old man who delights in destroying innocent and guilty alike, safe in the knowledge that he will burn with them all in the end. Theta tried to not see a parallel between them, but was helpless not to draw lines – whether they actually existed or not.

“Are you here to gloat, Doctor? Or are you here to beg for my mercy?” Calm, indifferent with his words. The tone was very much home, even as this creature maligned the very walls with its presence. The stench of alien and wrong was almost physical – the violence restrained only by the creature’s inability to move. Part of that was the monster’s own doing, the rest devised by the Time Lords who had the sheer luck of capturing it alive.

“Davros,” Theta acknowledged, forcing himself to look at one of his oldest enemies – a twisted parody of man and machine – seemingly helpless and yet deadly all at once. The spider in the Dalek web. The poisoner of his people. The creator of some the worst beings ever to grace the cosmos – worse even, than the Theta’s own race. He was aware of Gallifrey’s failings. He wasn’t fighting this war just for his people – if it was just them…

He studied Davros quietly, assessing him, detaching himself before he spoke. His silence, his refusal to rise to the bait Davros had casually tossed out seemed to unnerve the creature, the absence of sound stretching and thickening the air between them; like the smoke that had rolled through these halls at the first attack a few centuries ago.

Lungbarrow had been one of the first to fall. Sadly, it was not one of the last – all due to this twisted caricature of life that sat so deceptively helpless and vulnerable before him. He had made the mistake of mercy once. He would not make that same mistake again, should the creature give him reason to dispatch of him. Whether or not his death would be swift would depend solely on Davros himself, another thing Theta tried not to dwell on as he marshaled his thoughts. The Doctor truly was no longer – a fact that grieved him, even as it freed him. Two truths at war with each other and one he couldn’t afford to wage until the current War between his peoples and the Daleks was over. Until then, he was the General – the man with the most information on the enemy they fought and the tactics they would use. He hoped he could shed that title sooner rather than later, but that depended on many things that he couldn’t control.

He may not be able to control those things, but he could control the here and now – and by Davros’ startled silence, he may have the upper hand yet.

‘ _Steady…_ ’

“We seem at a stalemate,” Theta said smoothly, answering a question that had yet to be asked. “The War is in a holding pattern – but then you already knew that. You planned it that way when you were captured, I’m sure. The longer we hold the stand-off, the more time your people get to review our tactics and raid our artifacts. Not the most original idea, but fitting for a bunch of unimaginative computers crammed into reinforced tin cans.”

“You underestimate us, Doctor,” Davros crooned acidly. “A habit that will be your peoples undoing. You’ve always turned a blind eye to the destruction you have allowed us to wreak. Why is that I wonder? Do you truly not understand our resolve? Or do you delight in the suffering we offer your people? Your people who reject you, who have shunned you in the face of everything but this War. Why? Do you ever ask yourself that?”

“But it seems your forces are lost without you Davros,” the Time Lord continued, acting as though the creature hadn’t said a word. “They have failed in their overall mission – just as you have failed in yours.”

“You lie,” Davros hissed, his usual venom overlaid with apprehension. The Daleks usually fared better when they had their master to guide them, something they both well knew. Thinking outside the box was not their strong suit – and though their enemy was soft, weak in war compared to them – the Time Lords were also a wily, fierce race that was known for trickery and deception.

“While you have moldered away here, waiting for your pets to come with the glorious news of our destruction, we have been dismantling them from the outside in.” Theta said, his smile cold and calm in the face of Davros’ rising rage. “Did you honestly think you could gather intelligence here? _Here_ – the fallen House of Lungbarrow? Surely you knew my family’s standing was not what it once was. Did you truly think there would be a set of loose tongues about, just wagging away with information you could feed to your mongrels in-a-can?”

Theta laughed, the sound merry, cruel – and utterly genuine – as Davros sputtered and frothed helplessly in the chair he had designed himself. His prison within a prison. How alike were they, really? And how funny was that on the face of it? Prisoners of their own making – and prisoners of their ideals and circumstances. Really…what was there to not laugh about?

“We figured it out even as we smuggled you out of that broken junk heap you call a ship. We anticipated you trying to beam a transmission from outside of these walls – just in case you actually _did_ find something useful – and we took steps to jam anything you might send. Of course, there is nothing to send, is there?” Theta laughed again, but without humor, his chuckles echoing against the walls in counterpoint to Davros’ ragged breathing, the creature utterly still now in his chair and eyeing him warily. “Not quite the fount of information you had calculated for. And do you know what the icing is? What makes this even funnier?”

Theta’s blinked slowly, eyes glittering with something akin to enraged joy, his smile toothy with that same emotion, even as his heart felt as empty as his House had become. His House that now held two monsters under its roof – one spawned of the Time Lords and one aligned against them. The irony was too delicious to not marvel over.

“Why are they not here? Your precious metal and flesh children? Where are they Davros? They know where you are – why have they not come?” Theta queried coolly.

“You know nothing of the Daleks after all,” Davros shrieked breathlessly. “When you fall, then my Daleks will come – ”

“To bury you in the rubble that’s left,” Theta countered with a dark smile. “They always think themselves better off without their creator, their master, don’t they. But as always, a foolish assumption.”

He let Davros absorb that, the implications dawning with the widening of his sightless eyes, the twist of his withered mouth. He smiled and smiled as Davros jerked away from him, fumbling at controls rendered immobile weeks ago in an unconscious maneuver to escape what Theta would say next, desiccated torso trembling with thwarted rage.

“The 86th battalion has fallen, Davros. One way or another, we have your defeat at hand. Your forces will never take the Citadel. With or without you, the Dalek race will burn under the might of Gallifrey. It just seems they would rather do so without you – but can you really blame them?”

“You lie!! You lie, Doctor!! We will defeat you! We will know the secrets of Time and wipe you from history as we take our rightful place as rulers of all the Universe!” Davros screamed, apoplectic with anger and fear. The chair rattle and screeched under the rocking lunge of his fury, the sound like nails across a chalkboard. “You _lie_!!”

“Face it, Davros,” Theta said dismissively, turning to the door. “Even if the Daleks _do_ win – which is unlikely – you will lose. They will never rescue you from this place. You have sealed your own fate. You will never see the outside of this room. What was once the proud house of Lungbarrow will be your tomb. And good riddance to you.”

“Doctor! You dare not do this! You come back here and face me!” Davros shrieked, caught in the trap of his own making. “Doctor!”

Theta ignored him, trying to control the shaking that followed the (sick) rush of adrenaline – compose himself as he knocked four times –

_Rat-a-tat-tat_

on the crumbling wood and steel of the door, knowing the guard would expect a General, not the failed progeny of this once mighty House. He was no longer the man Davros screamed for in such shrill tones of hate and pain. He hadn’t been that man for a long time.

So why did his hearts ache with regret? Why did he not feel satisfaction in his clear victory?

Why did he feel so false, hollow – _petty_?

“Goodbye, Davros,” Theta said tonelessly as the lock snapped away from its housing. “It has not been an honor or a priviledge – trust me on that.”

Davros screamed wordlessly as he opened the door, the howl that of a wounded animal – and just as haunting as the echoed screams of his family that still sang forth from the manor’s walls. His cries would join theirs soon enough. One more agonized voice to add to the multitude that already existed here, lost amongst the mob of aborted sound that breathed from the structure with every year that passed. The shrieks of the lost, the damned and the forgotten imprinted just as firmly in his hearts as they were in the decaying stone of this once beautiful place. This gorgeous, dying prison he once called home.

The door slotted back into place with a muffled creak of hinges-gone-rusty, Davros’ screaming muffled by the reinforced rectangle of wood and metal. The click of the lock was somehow louder than before at the final turn of the guard’s key – the impossibly small chunk of metal pocketed it with an absent twitch of his fingers, eyes solemn and heavy as he studied Theta’s face. All excitement, all eagerness seemed to blow away at whatever he saw in General’s visage, his manner hesitant, a tremble in his voice as he addressed his Commander, the leader of the Gallifreyian forces.

“Alright, Sir?” The inquiry just as unsure and shaky as the man’s fingers. Theta had to consciously stop himself from snapping at him – the word ‘sir’ in relation to him just as appalling, as grating as when he first heard it. But none of this was the guard’s fault. He was given an unpleasant task in an unpleasant, terrible place – and he was doing everything he could to the very best of his ability. Theta could only hope that would be enough.

Mustering up a small ounce of courage, he pulled out the man he once was, not knowing it would be for the last time in a long, long time to come. He smiled and he was the Doctor again – his manner comforting, reassuring in the face of the young Time Lord’s uncertainty – pleased when the youngster’s spine straightened once more, the mousy tremors ceasing as he soaked up the confidence Theta exuded –

 _sprawled like a broken doll on the last three steps, feet blocking the cracked door to Davros’ cell, eyes open and empty and Theta (the General) would remember this conversation – remember and use it to harden his hearts because he was so_ young _\- he had never gotten a chance to regenerate_ –

“All is well, soldier,” Theta said smoothly. “Seems our guest didn’t like the news I came to deliver. Do believe he will be a bit much to handle for the next few days, so be on your toes.”

“Yes Sir,” the other man said smartly, small smile twitching at his mouth as he regarded Theta with an almost-awe, his eyes bright, bright in that too-young face. Theta wished he wouldn’t look at him like that – not now…not after everything that had come to pass. But he found he didn’t have the heart to order him to stop.

He turned to the bottom of the steps, one foot already lifting his weight past the first stair when the guard’s question slammed between his shoulder-blades, stuttering him to a stop and forcing him to compose himself for a second time. He was getting old – and the regiments were getting younger…they couldn’t possibly know –

“Sir? Is it true that you are the one known as The Doctor?” Such an innocent question. So filled with curiosity and eagerness and pleasure. It was known that this House was once his home, but he had gone out of his way to quash any mention of his name in relation to who he was now. Only his closest friends and closer enemies knew of his once cherished moniker: he didn’t want division in the ranks. He was both devil and angel to his own people – and often enough he was both.

But rumors are just as prevalent with his own peoples as they are with anyone else’s. And the young always have their heroes. He should never be a hero, especially not now – but he knew better than to crush this young man’s happiness, as there was so little of that to be had lately.

He forced himself to face the young Time Lord, trying to match the smile that beamed from the man’s face, trying to find that person he used to be and show him what he was before the War had taken his Name from him. There was such hope in that face, just as there had been in his own once and he unconsciously reached up to tug at a curl along his shoulder that no longer existed – his hair shorn down to disguise him from himself and give him a clear character advantage over those opposed to him in the Council. It worked, even as it didn’t – and after a while he just kept it short, adopting the military frock they insisted he wear just to save time and out of new habit. The man he once was must still have been in there, though – as the guard’s face brightened to blinding levels, his awe increased a thousand-fold. Theta’s heart sank but he never let it show on his face, still too Doctor to hurt this youngster, even as he was too General to be the Doctor this man had heard of.

“Yes,” he said slowly, careful even as he revealed himself. “Once I was known by that name.”

“I knew it!” The other Time Lord crowed, all decorum lost in his obvious joy. “I knew it had to be you.”

“Young man –” Theta started to say, before being interrupted with the enthusiastic babble of the guard, his happiness almost contagious and startling in such a bleak atmosphere.

“Don’t worry,” was the breathless interjection. “I won’t tell, but…the _Doctor_! So…the prisoner –”

“An old enemy,” Theta confirmed. “One of my oldest. So do be careful. I have faced him and his Daleks many times. They are smarter and more fearsome than they appear, so just…be careful.”

“I will,” the man (a boy, really), said eagerly, practically thrumming with determination. “I have heard he is quite the monster. And sometimes the way he looks at us –”

The Time Lord once known as Doctor reflected sadly on the word monster and who it best fitted in these times of darkness. He tried to not flinch as the guard prattled on happily, too young to understand war and all that it meant. How it made gods and monsters on both sides – and some more than others.

“He is the epitome of hate, young man,” Theta said calmly. “If you come away from this war with anything, let it be a remembrance of who we are and what we fight for. It will change you, make you harder – but don’t let it change who you really are. If it does, they have truly won. If I ever had any advice to give you, it is that. Don’t hate them. Don’t let them make you hate them. Keep ahold of who you are. Whether we all live to see the end, whether we are defeated or victorious – just remember that.”

“I will, Sir,” The young man said in a more subdued tone, eyes round and wide with that damnable awe and just a tiny hint of fear. “I will do my best.”

“That is all we can do,” Theta concluded wearily, turning once more to go, to escape from this hell he had once run to with open arms.

“And Sir? Doctor?”

With dread, Theta looked over his shoulder to find the man peering at him keenly, shoulders straight and stiff, salute as crisp as if he had invented the thing. Almost absently, Theta returned it, faintly overcome with a disturbing sense of déjà vu – overlaid with something much blacker and more horrifying than he wished to face. He had already battled one monster today – he had no strength left to battle himself.

“It has been an honor, Sir. Thank you.”

“As you were,” was the most he could muster before hastening his escape, his thoughts centered around getting back to the front, to his responsibilities – laying to rest the ghosts of his home.

 

**\-------------------------------------------------**

 

He had other ghosts to attend to - and far more pressing concerns that the name he had long tried to forget. But if he had learned anything over the last hundred years, he had learned that escape is never truly possible. And running only leads you right back to where you had started from.

This point was never made more clear than when he got the call about Lungbarrow – and the attack force that swept through, decimating all that were in their path. The Daleks never got what they came for, but they left nothing to come back to except more of the dead and dying – more ghosts to wail endlessly in the empty halls of the manor.

He stood in the ruin, more affected than he should have been (after so many centuries of war and loss and pain), the hatred he had warned against settling deeply into his hearts, only to be cemented by the horror he found outside of Davros’ cell – a horror he had seen so many times he should be immune, but one set apart from those others with the simple fact of where it was found.

They had all escaped before the invasion, his family. The warning klaxons from the Citadel rallying them to the Capitol before all they had known could be burned down around them. No one had died here, not like this – until now.

It looked as if he hadn’t even had time to scream.

A Time Lord so young, he was barely out of Academy. He had never regenerated and now he never would. He’d had enough time to draw his weapon, but not enough to fire it – for all the good it would have done him. The heavy weapons were parceled out amongst the front ranks and this was so far away from the front as to be on another planet. He’d never had a chance – and the man he had been so honored to meet was too weary to even be angry over the oversight. He truly was no longer the Doctor. The General was all he could be and he’d be depressed over that if it hadn’t become such a part of his armor.

“Never forget who you are,” he whispered, feeling ghoulish even as he crouched protectively over the young Time Lord’s body. There was no enemy left to fight here, none other than the man he was fast becoming.

“General,” someone rapped out above him. “The area is clear, Sir.”

“Good,” he called without turning around, relieved he hadn’t startled with the sudden boom of sound above him. Wouldn’t do for the General to look weak in front of his Commanders. “Start with the clean-up then.”

“Yes, Sir,” was the crisp reply, followed by the fading clomp of boots and the faint barking of orders in the distance. Something else he had never thought he’d hear in this place. This was obviously a day of firsts.

He couldn’t mar this silence, this oppression with even the slightest cough at his own black humor. The fact he had said anything at all was a desecration of this tomb, this pocket of horror he had somehow had a hand in. Nothing would convince him otherwise.

His eyes were the worst.

Out of everything, even his very lifelessness – it was his eyes that stole Theta’s breath. The made such a reality out of this horrible nightmare he could never wake from. His reflection within the pale orbs was twisted, a distorted parody of his visage, but he found he could not look away. He forced himself to look at them, realizing (with another savage jolt of misery) that he had never even known the man’s name. He had as good as murdered him – and he had never bothered to know who he was.

“I should have given you better advice,” he whispered to the empty mask that had once housed a bright, intelligent being. “I should have told you that the monsters…the monsters aren’t always so easy to detect. That sometimes…sometimes the monsters are us.”

He swallowed thickly, selfishly allowing himself this moment of grief. A moment none of them had been allowed thus far – and one he knew better to indulge in. But this young man, this poor creature that had died defending against an enemy he couldn’t even comprehend (like so, so many of them – too many) deserved that respect. He deserved to be mourned. Even if it was by a man he didn’t really know, who never bothered to know _him_. A cruelty he had never earned.

He had never felt less like the Doctor than he did now. He also knew there was no way to ever reclaim the man he had been. There was a relief in that fact, even as there was sorrow in it. But he couldn’t feel sorrow for himself when he had earned none. It went to better people, better beings than he could ever be.

“You told me…you told me it was an honor to meet me. But I couldn’t tell you the man you met was a lie. I’m so sorry I lied to you. I wish I could have been the man you heard whispered about in the Academy halls. But he’s been dead for a long, long time.” Theta swiped unconsciously at the tears that threatened to fall, trying to give enough without giving too much. A poor way to say goodbye, but the only way he knew anymore. “I should have said the honor was mine. I should have said a lot of things. But mostly, I should have told you…told you that the monster was on the wrong side of that door.”

Gently, he closed the dead man’s eyes, kissing two fingers before pressing them gently over his eyelids. He didn’t know if he covered them to honor the dead in front of him, or the dead man inside…he just knew he couldn’t see himself reflected anymore: a distortion of everything he had once believed in.

He didn’t know how long he crouched there, looming over the body of a man long past the need for such shallow protections, but it must have been a long time. He felt sick to his stomach, legs cramping, head heavy as the stone around him, when he was alerted to his surroundings by the grit of his first Commander’s boots on the top step. He was smart enough to only descend down two of the fifteen stairs, instinctively giving Theta time to pull himself together, the other Time Lord radiating a strength and patient calm that the General was severely lacking at that moment.

“General?” Was the respectful, quiet query – and Theta almost laughed, even as he had never felt more close to tears in his long, long life.

‘ _Too long._ ’

“Yes, Commander?” Good – he sounded calm, steel creeping back into his voice even as he trembled with suppressed emotion below the other man’s feet. He sounded like a General again, even as he wished he could turn back the clock, become the man this dead boy had thought he had met.

“The soldiers have cleared the grounds. We have only one last...” the Commander trailed off with a murmured note of shared sorrow before clearing his throat. Back to business. “We have a new guard ready to take up his post. By your leave.”

“Yes,” Theta rasped out in reply, rising to his feet in one motion, armor wrapped tight once more. “Please see that this young man’s family –”

“Yes Sir,” the Commander said abruptly, tone almost chastising. As if to say ‘ _I will do as we have always done. I respect those that have fallen. This is why I’m your First in Command_ ’.

“Thank you, Kreilmas, apologies,” Theta said, duly humbled.

“No need, Milord,” the Commander returned softly, the break in their roles a symbol of mutual understanding and the highest show of respect. “I will tend to the young man myself.”

“Thank you again, Commander,” Theta said gruffly, turning to look up at his First Officer, one of his dearest friends once – and now one of the men who feared him most. The friend was still in there though…somewhere. But for how long? “I shall leave you to it then.”

“Yes Sir – get ready men, on your feet!” The Commander barked – and the moment was over.

The General strode past him, mounting the steps like he was leading a charge, blue eyes gone steel-gray sweeping over the men standing to attention at the top of the stairs. He nodded once, moving aside to allow them access, not even daring to look back as the new guard took the dead one’s place.

That young man had met two villains – and survived neither of them.

Within moments, the rubble was cleared, the dead soldier sealed away in something resembling an Earth body-bag (only more mobilized), the area looking much the same as it had before. Though Theta knew better…yes, he definitely knew. But he pushed that knowledge away, packed it away within his mind – this surprise pain he thought he had lost the ability to feel – and moved out ahead of his troops, eyes back on the Capitol. The General had another campaign to organize, another push on the Citadel to prevent; and though he was off the edge of his own inner map (‘ _Beware: here there be monsters_ ’), he would find a way to lead them all to victory, even if he took them all with him. This was War after all – and sometimes the first casualty you had to acknowledge was yourself.

The Doctor was long gone; the General had come to stay. And there were monsters to be faced. One day they would win, if they hadn’t already.

But not today.

 

****

~Finis~

  


**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings:** Spoilers for the Time War, Introspection, Angst, Character Study, Dark!Fic, Horror, Minor (OC) Character Death  
>  **A/N:** Written for [](http://who-at-50.livejournal.com/profile)[**who_at_50**](http://who-at-50.livejournal.com/)'s **[50th Anniversary Fanwork-a-thon: '](http://who-at-50.livejournal.com/29775.html) Eighth Doctor/Monsters'**, comprised of my usual overly thinky ramblings. Basic wandery-blithery within, with the added note that I know nothing of the Time War itself, I have heard no Big Finish Audios with the Eighth Doctor and I am taking a total shot in the dark with this. All that aside, I certainly hope it suffices. Standard disclaimer applies here: mostly unbeta'd and written in one go (with only the mildest of tweaking), so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. As always, I apologize for any repetition, mispellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.  
>  **Disclaimer(s): _I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!_**


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